


Fallout

by chrissie0707



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7330876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep 11.10 The Devil in the Details. "Dean." Sam sends a harsh exhale through his nostrils. "You have some supernatural form of radiation poisoning. What part of that is okay?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean pulls over to vomit three times on the short trip to the bunker.

First time is a shock explained easily enough by a combination of nerves and whiskey Sam's seen a dozen times over but Dean won't ever cop to. Or, hell, maybe it's just an effect of having been back in Hell. Sam's feeling a bit sick himself, trying once more in vain not to remember things he won't be able to forget.

Second time the car jerks to sudden stop on the berm, Dean doesn't look surprised so much as he does mildly concerned, and it may be a sign of some looming stomach bug he'd left his system vulnerable to, running himself ragged to get to Sam.

But the third time, maybe ten miles out from the bunker, Dean's exploding from the Impala before it's come to a complete stop and Sam's leaning across the seat, twisting the key in the ignition of the still-running car and looking for blood in the sparse mess leaving his brother's lips.

He's white-faced and thin-lipped, thinking back on the fight in the cage, worrying about the possibility of internal damage that's beyond their home care capabilities, contemplating _911_ and patting down his pockets, trying to discern whether his cell phone made the trip to Hell and back with him.

In Kennesaw, Sam had gone to the passenger side of the car without question, debate, or even a look back at his big brother. Because he was the bloodier of the two and _big brother_ was the mode Dean was quite obviously operating in, and there are things he will and will not allow under such circumstances. Things that are worthless to discuss. In fact, Sam's not sure he can remember the last time he drove the Impala, because Dean's been stuck firmly in this mode for months, since the Darkness, and he was going to be driving out of there whether or not he'd been choked to the brink of unconsciousness by the devil himself and regardless of the fact he'd been holding himself awkwardly on the walk out, favoring his left arm and side.

Ribs, probably, but Sam doesn't know if they're looking at bruises, cracks, or breaks. Or maybe something much worse. Sam didn't ask, didn't even _think_ to ask. He'd just taken his spot at Dean's side.

Maybe Lucifer's right. Maybe he has gone soft.

Phone firmly in hand, Sam regards his brother with wide, worried eyes as Dean drags himself back into the Impala. "Dude."

Dean makes no move to start the car again, just lays his head back against the bench seat, looking pale and sweaty and incredibly sick in the yellowish glow of the single working streetlight along this stretch of road.

"Okay, spill," Sam orders, gripping the cell phone but not yet dialing. "Details, man. And then _I_ decide whether or not a hospital comes into play."

Dean chuckles, ends up gagging and leans out of the open car door, spits miserably onto the gravel berm. "Unclench, Sam," he says once he's pulled back into the car. "It's, uh, smiting sickness."

Sam blinks. "It's what?"

"Yeah." Dean nods, then realizes that's a horrible idea and brings the heel of his hand up to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. "I just, uh, got a little too close to ground zero when heaven tried to make Amara go poof. Angelic fallout, I guess."

"Smiting sickness," Sam repeats, trying out the words. "That's a thing?"

"Yeah, looks like."

Sam turns his attention once more to his cell phone, thumbing through the contacts.

Dean swallows audibly, dropping his hand to his lap and rolling his head on the seat to face Sam. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Cas and telling him to get his ass here right now to heal you."

"He can't. Sammy, it's okay. I'll be okay, really."

"Dean." Sam sends a harsh exhale through his nostrils. "You have some supernatural form of radiation poisoning. What part of that is _okay?_ " But if Castiel really can't heal him, then okay might be all they can hope for. Of course, Sam knows better than to take that at face value, knows he should push, knows he should verify this is something truly out of the wingspan of angelic intervention, and not just another situation like after their run-in with the Nachzehrers, when Dean claimed Cas had sapped too much of his grace patching up Sam and refused his own care despite the agreement they had.

Sam sighs, worries his bottom lip and reminds himself that he can't have faith in his big brother only some of the time. "What did Cas say?"

"That it'll pass."

"How long?"

Dean licks his dry lips, lifts a shoulder. "I dunno."

"You do know how lame both of those answers are, right?" He sighs, takes full stock of his brother's white, sweaty face, the blossoming bruises around his left eye standing out in stark contrast. The guy looks miserable, and Sam can nearly feel the heat of a burning fever radiating from him. "Okay." He nods, tucking his phone away. "Come on. I'm driving the rest of the way."

"What?" Dean's head snaps up, bringing out a groan that originates from deep inside his body. "Sam, no. You were just in the cage with friggin' Lucifer, man." His voice is wrecked, hoarse.

"Yeah, and you look worse than me. So get out of the car before I move you myself." Sam raises his eyebrows, just in case there are any questions.

Dean stares, licking his lips once more, but it's all a show of pointless stubbornness. If he really thought he was up to finishing this trip from the driver's seat, the car would already be moving. "Okay," he finally relents, and requires the assist of both the seatback and steering wheel in his pathetic attempt to stand.

Sam stops him, grabs Dean's shoulder firmly and presses him too easily back against the seat. "I'll get out," he says. "You scoot."

By the time Sam's rounded the hood of the car to the driver's side, Dean has barely managed to drag himself a full foot down the leather seat. There's no denying it; the guy can play through a hell of a lot. But he's on the downward slide now, and he's going down fast.

Sam avoids the vomit-splattered grass and gravel beside the tire and pauses with a hand on the cool roof of the car, narrowing his eyes. "Hold on a sec."

After digging up a bottle of room temperature water that's been rolling around in the trunk for weeks, Sam goes around to Dean's side of the car. He stoops in front of the still-open door and digests the fact that Dean has made it only so far as the middle of the seat, sweaty temple tipped against the leather seatback and sending harsh, irregular breaths through parted lips.

"Hey," Sam says, but it falls on closed eyes and seemingly deaf ears. Somewhat understandable, as it takes a hell of a lot more than that to gain Dean's attention under the best of circumstances. _"Hey,"_ he tries again, louder and reaching in to grab his brother by the scruff of his baking hot neck, rattle-rousing him.

Dean rolls his head away from the contact, opens his eyes and blinks blearily at him.

Sam hold out the bottle. "Here."

"What?"

"Dude, in the past hour I've watched you puke up the equivalent of a small lake." Sam shakes the bottle. "Hydrate."

Dean takes the water in his trembling hand, but doesn't drink. "You know, all things considered, I should be taking care of you right now."

Sam doesn't want to be taken care of, doesn't want to _need_ such care, and sure as hell doesn't want to be as soft as Lucifer says he is. He's FINE. A bitch of a headache, maybe, and he's tired beyond question, but Dean is really, and quite possibly dangerously, sick here. "You always take care of me, Dean. You just literally went to _Hell_ to take care of me. Can you just, once, sit there, drink that, and let _me_ take care of _you?_ "

Dean's throat works, and he winces. "Don't get used to this," he rasps. He won't have much of a voice by morning, for a number of reasons.

Sam thumps his palm lightly on the roof of the Impala. "I promise."

"I mean it," Dean says as Sam helps him fully relocate to the passenger side of the bench. "This big brother thing you're doin'? That's mine."

Sam smiles. "Got it." He pushes the door closed gently, but the hinges creak all the same.

By the time he drops behind the wheel, Dean has leaned fully into the cooling comfort of the window on his right, and the half-full bottle of water is balanced precariously in his limp fingers.

Sam thinks about Dean playing through all of _this_ , and doing it because he had to get to his little brother. He doesn't know how Dean does it. And he doesn't want to be soft, or weak, but that's not all the devil had said.

He sighs, twisting the key in the ignition. "So, Lucifer," he starts, somewhat hesitantly, guiding the car back onto the road. "He said some things – "

"Shocker."

"I know. Just hear me out."

In the cage, Sam had been rock-solid steady in his faith that Dean was coming for him, drawing strength from it. And he's been stuck now wondering if despite everything, through pain and promise and knowing what was best…was that how Dean survived purgatory? Not just thinking, but _knowing_ that Sam was coming for him?

Sam's used to contradicting himself, but it stings to have it pointed out by a third party. Especially when that third party is the devil.

He grips the steering wheel. "I just…you should know, there hasn't been a day I haven't been stronger for having you here. For having you back."

Dean lifts his head from its resting place against the window, lips moving soundlessly as his glassy, feverish eyes shift sluggishly around the Impala's interior, never once landing on Sam. "Back from?" he asks finally, playing dumb.

Which is fine, because Sam doesn't need Dean to say anything, just to listen. This was about what _Sam_ had to say.

"Doesn't matter." Sam takes the turn for the long, narrow road leading to the bunker. "Just wanted to make sure you knew."

*******************************************************

_To be continued in Chapter Two_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's head is pounding mercilessly, to the point that he's having a hard time focusing on anything Sam is saying, the bass tones of his brother's frustratingly low voice sliding in and out of range and comprehension like it's coming through some jacked-up stereo speaker instead of a man sitting right next to him. Still, the sound of his voice serves as a kind of grounding comfort, and Dean rolls his head that direction.

He's pretty sure he remembers walking out of Hell – one that's undergone some _serious_ renovations since his last stopover – and with a few souvenirs, too. He's got a rib on his left side that's being a real bitch, but for all Dean knows, that fight in the cage could have happened hours or days or even weeks ago. The time since they left Kennesaw has passed in a nauseating blur. He knows it was a short drive there and should be an equally short drive home, but his shift behind the wheel had sent them on a detour to the berm at least once. Maybe more.

He gags just thinking about it, brings a closed fist up to his mouth and can almost FEEL the intensity of the worried look Sam shoots his way.

"I need to stop? We're almost there, man. Ten minutes, tops."

Dean jerks his head in the negative, which is an incredibly bad idea and sends the interior of the car spinning sickeningly around him. They're safe in the Impala, out of Hell, but it feels like the pit's still got its hooks in him. Feels like he's on _fire_ , miserable and suffocating inside his own sore and clearly ill body. He hasn't felt this bad in, well, maybe ever. He reaches up a clumsy hand to tug at the suddenly constricting collar of his t-shirt only to have his wrist snagged immediately by his brother.

"Hey, hey, easy with the throat," Sam says sternly, firmly guiding Dean's hand back down to rest against his thigh, because the kid's somehow gotten it into his head that he's in charge of something right now. "As soon as we're back at the bunker I'll getcha some ice for…well, everything, probably." He rolls his shoulders stiffly, moving like he could use an ice bath himself.

And that makes sense, because the fingers wrapped around Dean's are punch-wounded, decorated with split, bloodied knuckles, and there are similar marks on his face.

Sam keeps hold of his hand long enough to be sure he's gotten the message to keep still, and Dean's lip curls at the intrusion as well as the implication. _Not friggin' five, dude._ But the last time he risked speaking it kinda felt like he'd swallowed a handful of wood chips and chased it with a hot lava shooter, so he communicates the thought a lot less verbally, roughly jerking his hand back into his own possession. He succeeds in also throwing his shaky, unsteady ass into the car door and slumps there, conceding momentary defeat to this raging smiting sickness and relishing the cool comfort of the winter-kissed window against his aching, sweaty temple.

Sam's always gotten his rocks off by looking for more than what's put down between the lines, and the Impala accelerates as soon as Dean makes it clear he ain't sitting back up. His eyelids droop closed against a sudden onslaught of bright lights and blurry shapes more suited to a _Star Wars_ -style hyperspace jump than interstate travel, and Dean can't say for sure he's ever given Sam the authorization to drive his baby as a speed high enough to produce such visual effects unless there's blood pooling on the bench between them.

Dean's left hand flops to his side, fingers feeling out the cool, dry leather of the seat. "Sl'down," he mutters, the words feeling thick in his mouth.

"You say something?"

Dean swallows, clears his throat but doesn't risk opening his eyes. "Yeah. Slow the fuck down before I puke on you."

The Impala decelerates noticeably, to a full stop, in fact, and Dean rolls his eyes behind his lids. "I said slow down, not stop." _Captain Drama…something. Pants. Sure._

"Wha – Dean, we're here." Sam grips him by the shoulder and jostles him, but lightly, like he realizes it's a stupid fucking thing to be doing even as he's doing it.

Dean presses a fist against the seat and waits first for Sam to get back on his side of the car and then for the world to settle a bit before asking, "Where?" He drags his eyes open, confirms that he's lost a bit more time here since he dropped his eyelids. The car is cooling and ticking and no longer moving, and a pock-marked concrete wall of the bunker's garage now lies beyond the wide windshield. He also seems to have exhausted his ability for prolonged conversation over the past few minutes, and it takes buckets of effort to have managed that single word, and the sound that's crawled out of his throat is hardly worth being called a voice.

"Yeah," Sam comments slowly, before Dean can work up the energy to redeem himself with something witty or sarcastic. "This is gonna be a fun few days." He sighs and makes a face that exaggerates the bruises and blood marring his features.

Even so, Dean's a bit too preoccupied registering the sensations of _home, hot_ and _sick_ to properly process the damage there or put forth any sort of intelligent, or at least smartass, response. All he wants is to get out of this damn stuffy car and find somewhere soft and cool to collapse and sleep for about nine days. And if he's lucky, he won't puke up bits and pieces of his vital organs on the walk to his room. He rolls his shoulder against the window and pops the handle, flinging the door open and very nearly following the trajectory of the swing all the way to the oil-stained concrete. He hisses as that bitch rib protests the awkwardness of the motion.

Head swimming and hanging precariously over the edge of the seat, Dean's fingers cling to the leather as his roiling gut takes its sweet time in deciding its next move. He closes his eyes and works on long, slow breaths and telling himself to get a grip. Telling himself that he's had worse. That this is so much nothing, he hasn't ever _heard_ of smiting sickness before and besides, Cas more or less said he's be fine. Seriously, he walked in and out of Hell on Gumby legs and with his insides taking turns on amusement park rides and no one was any the wiser.

He just needs a minute to get it together and get out of the car. Just one damn –

Sam's cool, giant hand on the back of his neck is a sudden, not entirely unwelcome shock that brings Dean's head whipping up and tips the gastrointestinal scales in the wrong direction.

But his not-so-little brother's prepared like a goddamned Boy Scout and crafty as all get out, positioning one of the oil pans on the ground beneath Dean's downturned face. It's clean enough, but the faint whiff of old oil and soapy residue wafts up from the faded plastic and gives his insides a rough shake.

He clamps it down, swallowing a few times. "God, that reeks. Get it outta my face."

"Nuh uh. I've cleaned up more than my fair share of your puke off the floor since we moved in here, man. If you're gonna spew again, it's goin' in a bucket."

Dean concedes that point with a wrinkle of his nose, but it feels strange to make light of those days when the bloodthirsty Mark of Cain wasn't exactly playing nice with the rest of his body. "Still stinks," he mumbles.

"Humor me," Sam says stubbornly, crouching beyond the pan. He releases Dean and sighs wearily, pushing a hand through his long hair. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick, Dean?"

"M'fine." Like broken glass in a garbage disposal, and not doing so well to back up his statement.

"And, apparently, sleeping in the car tonight." Another sigh. "You gonna be sick or not?" Insistent, like Sam used up all of his touchy-feelies on the drive here.

"No." The scent of the pan stings his nostrils and flips his stomach and despite his protests, Dean finds himself leaning farther out of the car to take advantage of the very cause of his discomfort. "God, Sam," he groans. "Am I inside-out yet?"

Sam's a sympathy puker, and he takes a moment to respond, voice sounding a bit thick when he does. "Yeah, you're getting there."

Dean drops his forehead to the cool leather of the seat and braces a shaky hand against his ribs.

"You ready to move?"

"No," he says honestly and miserably, muffled by the seat.

But in keeping with tradition, Sam doesn't pay much mind to what Dean's got to say. He gets his giant hands positioned under Dean's chest and shoulder, dragging him firmly upright from his pathetic sprawl across the bench seat.

Dean gets one foot solidly underneath himself and it gives him some sense of balance. Enough so that he plants a hand on his brother's chest and shoves him away. Actually makes it all of two steps on his own before the world mocks that false balance with a ruthless spin and he requires Sam's assistance just to keep his feet.

"It's just me," Sam says grimly.

Dean knows he means, _quit showing off, dumbass._ It's a tone he knows well and has heard more than once over the past few months. He rolls his eyes and allows Sam to half-support, half-drag him out of the garage and into the hallway.

As rough as sitting still had been, he really should have been able to figure out how bad an idea moving around would prove to be. His head swims, colors and shapes in the dim corridor melting and spinning like a rinse cycle, like that psychedelic swirl that first had him heaving off the side of the road earlier today.

Yesterday?

Before Hell and Lucifer, in any case. That cage has become Dean's reference point for the foreseeable future.

He stares up at his little brother, can't believe he'd forgotten the shape the kid is in. "Sammy…"

His expression must be pathetically obvious, because Sam quickly swipes a palm across his own chin, wiping away a smear of blood as though the damage done is irritating him more than hurting him. He adjusts his grip around Dean's upper arm and prods him forward. "Come on."

"I'da had 'im, you know."

"Had who?"

"Lucifer. I'da had 'im, Sammy."

"If you weren't sick as a dog, you mean."

Dean nods, paying dearly for it as the hallway tilts so sharply he can no longer distinguish ceiling from wall from floor. So, he really couldn't be pressed to say which flat surface is suddenly at his back.

"Okay, that's…just stay there for a minute. Okay?"

"No, m'okay," he protests stubbornly, because Sam's a goddamn bloody mess and Dean's just got a couple bruises and a stomach having a little temper tantrum. But his body obeys his brother's orders, limbs dead weights that won't seem to move for love or money.

He hadn't realized Sam was gone until he's suddenly back, gingerly tipping Dean forward and pressing a wet and blessedly cool washcloth against the back of his neck. The coldness leaches out of the soft material in an instant, replaced with an intense heat that seems to be radiating from Dean's very core.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam breathes, increasing the pressure. "Okay. You're hot."

Dean grins, and it feels loose and sloppy. "S'been said."

"Yeah, all right, Casanova." Sam sighs, shooting a glance down the seemingly endless hallway. "Okay, let's get you someplace that's a little less in the middle of the hallway, huh?" When Dean gives no intention of moving, his brother drops into his line of sight. "Need a hand up?"

But Dean doesn't hear _need a hand up_ ; he hears _off your ass, we need to move._ Always has. He wordlessly reaches up and slaps a clumsy, clammy palm against the tile over his head and attempts to haul himself upright by virtue of his rapidly waning strength and the wall at his back.

Not his best plan, or his most graceful of moments, but Sammy's there for the save, dipping a shoulder under his flailing arm and setting a course for Dean's room.

Dean doesn't think he's ever seen anything so beautiful as his memory foam mattress, but it also feels kinda like he left his knees back somewhere around the garage. Sammy's got good instincts, and he knows they're on the clock here. He doesn't even try to get Dean out of his jacket, just grunts a bit as he gets him lined up to collapse atop the covers.

He lands on his side and doesn't have the energy left to both find a comfortable position and throw one last attempt at making sure Sam is okay. His blurry eyes search his brother's face, halting once more on the blood and bruises they find there. "What'd he do to you, Sammy?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Sam sticks his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Don't worry about me, you jerk."

"Bitch." And that's the last thing Dean thinks he says for a while.

***************************************************************

Dean feels a bit cooler when he wakes, but not necessarily any less shitty or any more comfortable, with a mouth as dry as the Sahara, a giant yawning void in his stomach and an unfortunate smell hovering overhead he's worried is coming from him. His abused throat feels tight, like a kinked hose, and each thin breath whistles noisily as he pulls it in.

Sam's voice is warbling in from somewhere at the back of Dean's head, at a volume that suggests he's probably in the hallway instead of the room; just loud enough to make a point of frustration but still hushed, evidence that he's aware there's a chance he'll be overheard saying things he'd rather not were overheard.

"Damn it, Cas, turn on your phone and get here. Dean's in rough shape. He said you can't heal him, but there has to be something you can – " An abrupt pause, partnered with a harsh, somewhat relieved intake of breath that matches up exactly with Dean's half-assed attempt to roll onto his back. "Just _get here_."

Sam's last words leave his mouth in a hushed, furious jumble, and when Dean works his eyes open his brother's face is hovering above him like a parade blimp caught in a gust of wind. He tries to push himself up on an elbow and Sam halts his process too easily with a hand against his chest.

"Hey, hey, hey. What d'you think you're doing?"

"Amara's out there." Dean brushes Sam's hand away and would take a header all the way to the floor if not for his brother's insane reflexes and considerable upper body strength.

Sam shoves him back flat. "And what exactly is your grand plan for fighting her right now, Dean? You gonna fall down on her to death?"

Dean blinks down at himself, realizing his jacket and button-down are gone. Boots, too. He raises his eyes to his brother, pops an eyebrow.

Sam smiles. "Don't worry, I bought you dinner first." He grabs a tall glass from the bedside table. "Or, water, at least."

"Water's free," Dean grumbles, but he's thinking, _best little brother in the WORLD._ Seriously, he's gonna have to make Sammy a ribbon or a trophy or something. He eagerly grabs for the glass, but Sam holds it away, bringing Dean to reconsider such plans.

"Take it easy, okay? Remember what I said about cleaning up your puke?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just, we've tried this a couple of times already, man. Take it slow."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's not wrong. A few sips down the hatch and his stomach is already rolling its protest. He pushes the glass away, tries to sit up further and maybe even get out of this bed, but finds the way blocked once more by his little brother.

"Seriously, Dean. Knock it off."

He paws ineffectively at Sam's hand on his chest. "I gotta _do_ something, Sam."

"You will. We both will. We'll figure something out, as soon as your temp drops below the surface of the sun, okay?"

Dean blinks, and he's suddenly flat on his back and looking up at the ceiling again. _What the…_ "Can't just lay here, Sammy."

"No, that's exact what you can do."

"Sam – "

"Don't worry about Amara right now, man. Besides, if she walked away from an angel smiting…she'll squash you like a bug, Dean."

"She won't."

Sam huffs, but only a little. "I know you think you're tough shit, and you're a little delusional right now, but – "

"No, Sam. You don't – " Dean sighs, raises his hand about halfway to his suddenly hot-feeling face before it becomes too heavy and drops back to his side. "She tried."

The admission knocks Sam back a small step, and his foot knocks the rolling desk chair aside. He frowns down at the chair and pushes both hands through his hair. "Wh – _she tried?_ "

Dean nods. "Or…stopped." He drops his head back to his pillow with a long exhale. "I tried, too," he mumbles. "Couldn't kill 'er, either. There's somethin'…I dunno. S'weird, Sammy." He feels better just saying it, because they're supposed to be doing things differently and it's been killing him to keep this strange connection from Sam. He feels better, and lighter, like he's floating away on an ocean tide, at risk of dropping below the waves.

There's a hot, sweaty hand gripping his forearm, squeezing and trying to keep him here and talking. "Dean, seriously, what does that mean?"

Sam sounds anxious and alarmed, but it's not nearly enough to drag Dean back to the surface.

*************************************************************

Next time Dean opens his eyes, he knows immediately that he's through the worst of it, and even more so he _knows_ this time that the smell is him.

Sam is sitting stiffly in a chair directly in his eye line, with one leg bent and propped atop the other, chin in his hand. Waiting. When he sees Dean awake this time, he doesn't rush to his side or breathe a sigh of relief or anything particularly expected textbook Sam. He just straightens in the chair, drops his hand to his lap, and stares.

Dean scoots up a little, tipping his temple against the headboard. "How long – "

"Two days."

Dean digests that, figures it matches up pretty well with the exact amount of weak, pathetic shit he feels. He squints at the yellowing bruises painting half of Sam's face, waves a hand that feels disconnected from the rest of him. "You okay?" It comes out a broken whisper, and the pain leaves him wincing.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "I'm fine," he says wearily, like he hasn't slept much over these past two days, and maybe like he's answered this question a few times already.

"Where's Cas?"

Sam sighs, drops his leg to the floor and drags a hand down his face. "I dunno." He leans forward, bracing his forearms against his thighs.

Dean doesn't remember much since falling into this bed, but he said something he shouldn't have, that's for damn sure. He's the only person that can plaster this look on Sam's face. This expressive mix of wariness and concern he's been bringing to his brother's features for more than two decades. "Sam. What did…I mean, did I – "

"How you feeling?" Sam asks, cutting him off.

"Better, I guess. Sam, just…" Something suddenly stands out from the confused, hazy jumble of the past few days.

_"You should know, there hasn't been a day I haven't been stronger for having you here. For having you back."_

It drains away the last vestiges of his already-sapped energy, but Dean manages a seated position and once he catches his breath, he levels a stare of his own at his brother. "Thanks, for what you said. Before."

"You remember that?"

Dean rubs his chin with a pale, shaking hand. "I think so."

Sam bobs his head. "You're welcome." He slaps his hands against his legs, and suddenly he seems exhausted. He shoves up from the chair, braces a few fingertips against the desktop once he stands. "Well, if you feel anything like you look, you're probably gonna be dragging ass for a few days still. Take it easy. Maybe think about a shower."

Dean frowns. "Where're you going?"

Sam barks a laugh. "To get some sleep, man. I'm wiped, and then some." He turns to leave, but stops on the threshold of the room, with one foot in the hallway. He appears to be struggling for words, like he doesn't quite know what he can or should say, but that's not an issue that typically gives Sam pause. Once he knows what he _wants_ to say, he's usually good to go.

Something about Sam's unease has Dean thinking he hasn't actually put his finger on what's hanging strangely between them, that there's something else he can't quite remember.

"Take it easy," Sam says finally. "I mean it. Wake me up if you need anything."

"Yeah."

Sam shuffles slowly down the hallway, and Dean collapses backward, gets a nose full of dried sweat sent up from his pillow when his head hits.

Yeah. No matter what may or may not have been said, Sam was not wrong about that shower.

*************************************************************

_End_


End file.
